


Stocking

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5393009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He almost immediately focuses on Sole’s foot; there’s something off about it. Slightly darker, with a strange sheen to it in the dim lighting; but that didn’t make much sense, and Hancock wonders if he’s been staring at a terminal screen too long. And then Sole wiggles his toes idly as he shrugs the suspenders off his shoulders, and Hancock’s throat goes a little dry as his mind races. Too sheer to be socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stocking

Night had fallen hours ago, but it hadn’t quieted Goodneighbor any; on the contrary, the town seemed to come alive once the lights dimmed and darkness offered an easy cover for anything unscrupulous or shameful.

Hancock himself even preferred the night; something about the crispness of Commonwealth air and the brightness of the stars when you’ve downed a bottle of whiskey and treated yourself to some Daytripper, well, it really made the night come alive. Loved the night, as long as he wasn’t stuck in front of the low green glow of his terminal screen. The downside of having traveled with Sole for such a long period of time meant that when they finally found their way back to Goodnighbor, Hancock had enough bureaucratic bullshit and bookkeeping to wade through that even a box of mentats wouldn’t get him through it in one sitting.

The Sole Survivor had neither the stomach nor mindset for politics. The larger scale of problems was too daunting; he focused on small problems, person by person, task by task. As soon as they touched down in Goodneighbor, he offered to sell off any of their scavenged junk, repair their armor, see if Daisy had anything new and refill their ammo supply: basically, anything to keep him busy and moving. He would do the menial tasks, so Hancock offloaded his pack, changed into his frock and put on his tricorner. He was mayor, again—at least, for a little while.

Hancock doesn’t turn around from the desk as the door to his office opens. His leg’s bouncing something awful, and the steady beat of his chair creaking in time with the numbers glowing in front of his face are all he can focus on. White Chapel Charlie would have to have his accounting notes updated if these books were right, unless someone had been sneaking behind the bar—

“-ancock? Hancock?” He startles at Sole’s voice, suddenly close. Hancock twists in his seat. Sole’s smiling, an eyebrow arched as he takes in Hancock in his full mayor’s garb. He easily hauls his bag onto the coffee table in the center of the room with little regard to the empty inhalers he sends scuttling to the floor. Hancock relaxes, drapes his arm over the back of the chair.

“Hey, there.”

Sole snorts. “Hard at work or hardly working?”

“Five ‘tats deep.” Hancock answers, his pupils slits. His leg starts to bounce again, watching as Sole toes off his boots. He almost immediately focuses on Sole’s foot; there’s something off about it. Slightly darker, with a strange sheen to it in the dim lighting; but that didn’t make much sense, and Hancock wonders if he’s been staring at a screen too long. And then Sole wiggles his toes idly as he shrugs the suspenders off his shoulders, and Hancock’s throat goes a little dry as his mind races. Too sheer to be socks.

His eyes dart up, just as Sole starts to pull his tucked shirt from under his belt, showing off a brief sliver of stomach, pale skin and the wiry dark hairs there. “So, I’d say pretty focused then.” Sole replies. He starts from the top with unbuttoning his dress shirt, thick fingers working delicate buttons; starting at his neck, rough with stubble, and revealing bit by bit the hair of his chest, long torso and waist. The last button reveals the slight softness of his stomach over thick muscle, and the hem of his slacks, where just a hint of black lace is peeking over the waistband, stark against the dirty camel pants and the relative paleness of his stomach.

Hancock swallows, blinks, and mutters, under an appreciative breath: “Son of a _bitch_.”

Sole’s only recognition is a smile a little too knowing, quirked a little too smugly at the corners: “Caught up with Kleo after I sold off those guns I scavenged,” He keeps the conversation light and casual as he hooks his thumbs in the loops of his belt, pulls his pants down just enough as he bounces back on the balls of his heels. Hancock watches as the lace peaks out just a bit more. “She’s doing well. The other week, she gibbed some asshole who tried to steal some stock right from under her, uh, nose?” Hancock licks his dry lips as Sole idly thumbs at the top button of his pants. The button comes undone, and then another, and another of his pants; they part, and in the dim light more lace is becoming apparent, the soft skin and thick hair from belly button downward. He’s pulling just hard enough at his belt loop that it can’t be anything but purposeful, the slow show of skin, and then he’s turning, casually pushing his boots aside with a stocking clad foot. “Daisy was pretty pissed, because apparently he was standing near that hole in the wall between them, you know, so he gets all kinds of guts, just mists right through to her side.”

He starts to slide his pants a little further down, just so Hancock can see him in profile, the thick lace band of the garter belt that sits above the curve of his ass and the straps that are holding up the stockings revealed. “So she asked next time when we were out, to keep an eye out for a womens’ size 0 pant suit.” It’s when he is fully turned around does he slide his pants down, bending over as he does so; black lace garter belt, white silk thong, thigh high stockings.

Hancock realizes with a jolt he’s been gripping the back of the chair too hard when a splinter finds its way into his skin. He hisses and pulls his hand away, sucks sorely at the digit, but doesn’t take his eyes off the curve of Sole’s ass, the way the bulge of his trapped cock looks from behind, so neatly packaged in that shiny silk. He wants to—God, now he understands when older ghouls make those tawdry going _feral jokes_ , wants to grab Sole by the hips, drag his fingers against the fleshier part of his hips. Sink his teeth into his thighs. His thighs, especially; thick and just barely letting the closures of the garter belt to hold onto the stockings, just a bit too tight for his size.

“You look good.” Hancock rumbles from the back of his throat.

Sole glances over his shoulder, a wide grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Hancock’s voice is a little strangled, a little tight. And speaking of tight, the way Sole looks bent over—when he stands, Sole straightens his back, turns around. And from this angle Hancock can see the lace panel on the front of his underwear, and the thick outline of his cock behind it; he’s already hard, painfully hard. Sole takes a step back, lets his hips sway; the light catches the precum that’s already soaked through the delicate fabric. Hancock swallows, grins: “Son of a _bitch_.”

Sole’s grin is wolfish as he stretches an arm above his head, rolls his shoulders with a series of low pops. He’s too cocky for his own good. “Well… I got you a little something.” He takes his time to turn around again, back to the couch and his pack on the coffee table; it’s just far enough away that Sole really has to stretch and lean over the back of the couch. Hancock’s eyes travel all the way up the length of his leg, the flexing of his calves as he stands on his tiptoes. “Just some ammo.”

Hancock knows it doesn’t take that long to find ammo, not with how the Sole Survivor keeps his munitions organized. Sole, with his back turned, arches his back just a little. “Some shotgun shells and a few fusion cells for that toy gun—“

There are hands, on his waist; and Hancock is grinding himself, rough and tawdry against his ass, and the words “you’ve been playing with” just sort of trail off from Sole’s lips. It’s brief, though; Hancock pulls back, lets his hands roam greedily over the flesh of his waist, the intricate lace details.

“This show’s great, and all, but I prefer a little interactive theater as opposed to sitting back and watching.” Hancock hums, runs his hands down the curve of his ass and squeezes. He is hungry, so hungry—under his hands Sole’s that perfect combination of strong yet pliable, a blustery, sarcastic exterior that could turn into putty in his hands. He kneads at one cheek, the thumb of his other hand dipping under the strip of fabric between his ass, pulls it back and lets the thong snap into place. Sole lets out an involuntary groan. Hancock notices the redness at the tips of his ears, the way his thighs are trembling.

Hancock falls to his knees. With his back to Hancock, Sole doesn’t realize what’s happening until he feels him yanking down the thong, his hands eagerly spreading his cheeks. The shock of his tongue sends his breath hitching so fast he nearly chokes on air, nearly drowns. Broad strokes of his tongue, wet, obscene; but that’s what Hancock has always promised to be, genuine and obscene, and God, does he look good like this.

The noises Sole is making means that after this, Hancock will have to rebalance the books to account for overpaying his guards.

He doesn’t mind, not when Sole is making noises like that. He pushes just the tip of his tongue inward and he keens, loud and wrecked, scrabbling to find purchase in the tatty fabric of the couch. Hancock just chuckles, and that pulls more long, low moans from Sole.

“Hancock,” Sole sounds strangled as Hancock lathes his tongue over his hole, breaks his short try at dialogue with another moan. “Hancock, please, _please_ —“

Hancock wishes he could reply, but his mouth is busy. He’s always been one to give people what they want, though, so he figures he can skip the speech for once; he’s pushing a finger in, next to his tongue, and Sole is bucking as Hancock times the strokes of his fingers to his tongue.

When Sole starts to needily palm at his own erection, Hancock eases himself up from his knees, keeping a finger in him still. He nearly rips the buttons off his fly as he pulls himself out of his pants. He suddenly chuckles under his breath, his heavy lidded gaze falling onto the sight before him, the long legs captured in the dark hose. He gives his ass a small pat with his free hand. “Dinner and a show.”

Sole huffs out a, “ _Christ_.” at the pun, but his voice is still too high and reedy to convey anything but unadultered want, grinding back against Hancock’s long fingers. Looking over his shoulder, he’s red faced, mouth parted as he pants. Hancock finds that spot, and he doesn’t relent, presses, and presses, until Sole’s dissolving into moans that are melting into overwhelmed sobs of his name like a prayer—

He removes his fingers with a wet sound as Sole is coming into his own fist, shouts muffled by his forearm he’s crossed and pressed his face to; he spreads the Sole Survivor’s ass once more, slides his cock between his cheeks and sets a fast pace. He’s well lubricated from his saliva, but there’s still enough friction with each thrust. He digs his fingers into Sole’s waist, nails catching on the lace, focuses on the sight of his cock sliding between his ass, and—

He collapses over Sole’s back, feeling the wetness of his own come on his lower back wetting his stomach.

Sole groans, “Get off,” but his words are slurred and muffled by his arm, it’s barely intelligible. Hancock mumbles, pressing kisses between Sole’s shoulder blades. It takes him a moment before he manages to stumble back. His legs are boneless.

Hancock gives his ass a fond pat, before vaulting himself over the edge of the couch, sprawling out. Sole huffs; he only looks up when he hears Hancock’s lighter, and when he does the ghoul is already passing him a lit cigarette.

“I was thinking, next time—get you some heels.”

Sole groans. “I’m a size 12 shoe. You think it was easy finding this—“ His hand goes back, to grab at the stockings, and his thumb finds the long run that’s split down his thigh. He groans. “Damnit.”

Hancock takes a long drag, exhales his laughter in a stream of smoke. “Like I’m saying. New stockings.” Sole just barely manages to roll himself over the back of the couch while keeping his cigarette aloft, but he crawls on top of Hancock, ignores his unheard muttered groans of him being heavier than a damn Brahmin. “And- oof—new heels.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I remember to crosspost things from my tumblr...
> 
> I really reall really appreciate comments (even though I've been super bad at replying to them I read each one and they make my small grinch heart grow each day.)


End file.
